Isaac II, Part I

This story takes place before the events of the story, "Isaac".





Close your eyes and see

That there ain’t no skies.

Whatever comes to be

None of us will cry.

The stars come out,

But when the morning comes

It never seems to say enough

To satisfy me



  Isaac half sung, half spoke the song, running his finger along his chin. His shift was over: the sun was coming up, but the streets were still dim and cold. Patches of fog hung in front of houses and crawled over walls. There was no wind, and no sounds. He stood in the middle of the road, losing feeling in his face. All the metal didn’t help; the chain-mail hauberk was burning cold to the touch, and his bucket helmet stole the heat from his face. Even the red and gold overlay was cold-soaked with rain.

  Something colder pressed against his neck. Isaac realized it was a knife.

“Take off your helmet.”

  Panic ran a dozen thoughts through him, but the cold kept him sober. He was sick of this. Sick of everything.

“Now.” the voice urged. Isaac knew that he was going to die whether he disobeyed or not.

  He bent his right leg and drove the boot upwards, into the soft flesh of the man’s crotch. The knife shook, grazing his skin. He twisted, unsheathed his sword, and swung it blindly in one, smooth movement.

  The blade buried itself in the man’s side with a thick chuk. Isaac watched him stumble to the ground and try to get back up. Isaac swung again, but the eye-slits of the helmet made it hard to see. Twice more he brought it down, until he felt the blade slide cleanly through and hit the paving stones.

  He stood over the cloven body for a quarter of an hour. There was no spark of movement in either man, except the clouds of breath that rose from Isaac’s helmet. Words drifted out of Isaac’s mouth.

“And all that walls against the sleep,

This bone and skin, oh, one blade deep

All the grass that’s fit to reap

And wheel away in the handcart

But walk on now

You’ve got your feet now.”

  He slipped his sword back into its sheath and began the long walk back to the house. Red sunlight glinted off his helmet and the stains. The city of Aluminus began to wake up around him.

-

  Illus1  had spared no expense for his regular soldiers, the Body: helmets, breastplates, spears, quarters, monthly pay, and beds were among the amenities offered to the five thousand eight hundred forty-four men that ensured the borders of the Soland. Magicians and flashjacks2  were paid double. Isaac liked the breakfasts.

  He was lowering a thin slice of cheese onto his potato when Arron grabbed his hand.

“What’s happened with your neck?” he mumbled through his beard. The three other men at the table looked up. They all had the same shift, and the sun was over the hills now. The square little table sat in the back corner of the guard house, away from the twenty beds that lined the walls. In the opposite corner was the warm light of the stove.

“Some assle3  tried to cut me.” Isaac replied, and bit into his potato.

“Looks like a scar’s coming on it.” Arron said. “Y’already took care of it, then?”

“Sealed it up. Wasn’t that bad.”

  The group went back to their ham and potatoes. Just as Isaac reached for his drink, the door swung open. The knives and forks were dropped instantly as they all stood up: the gold and white-clad Shine-man4 stepped inside, robes whispering over his matching gold armor. The ring-helmet of Sol hid his face, but Isaac knew him.

“Carry on.” Said the Shine-man. The soldiers sat back down. Isaac stayed standing, took a long swig from his wine, and wiped his mouth.

“Isaac-nar5 , you have been summoned. Accompany me.” The Shine-man continued, bowing slightly. Isaac nodded, one eye half-closed from sleep. He picked up his potato in one hand and walked toward the door.

“Right.”

-

  As they walked across the bridge to the keep, Isaac gently pushed his escort.

“They made you a Shiner, Lodossi? That’s ridiculous.”

  The Shine-man laughed behind his helmet and slapped Isaac’s chest with a gauntleted hand.

“Triple pay, a house, a servant. Had to volunteer for all the craziest shibaggen6  to get it.”

“What’s going on now?”

“They’ll brief you when you get there. It’s heavy.” Lodossi leaned close to Isaac’s ear. “Satchel is in charge.”

Isaac smiled broadly and whispered back. “So the Kingdoms7  still think he’s dead from…what was it?”

“The last defense we did, in the Pass.”

“Were you there?”

“That’s how I got these fancy clothes, yeah.”

“Good for you.”

  The Younger Tower loomed ahead, like a huge golden finger. Lodossi presented the Blind-man guarding the gates with the summons and his badges of rank. Isaac smiled as they went through; the sightless, half-mad magicians of the Tower were some of the best card-players he’d ever seen, due in part to poker faces crafted by years of ritual torture.

  After much stair-climbing and identifying themselves to some of the deadliest men in the Soland, Lodossi lead Isaac into the darkened Room of Maps.

  If the Illucaron8  was the heart of the Illusian lands, the Younger Tower was the arm, and the Room decided where the fist landed. The landmass of Immal was crafted in miniature on the floor, complete with finger-high mountains and tiny versions of Aluminus, Sol, and the other large towns. Tiny winding roads crisscrossed the tiny rivers and forests, and lengths of string marked borders. Three men were talking quietly, pointing at locations with long, thin poles. Overhead, the chandelier glowed dully, covering the rooms in degrees of shadow.

  Isaac stepped toward the Primary Map and watched the pointers. The tips were making lines along the Carrion-walk, at the foot of the mountains that divided the Small Kingdoms from the Soland. Everyone in the room was an officer, a guard, or an aide, dressed in white robes and the thin, gold armor reserved for non-combat occasions. Isaac thought of his own stained tunic and trousers, which smelled rather palpably of sweat.

  After few more seconds of grunts and whispers, the three men nodded and looked up at Isaac. Only one of their faces was familiar.

“Commander Sorrel.” Isaac mumbled, raising his palm so that the back of his hand almost touched his eye. The commander returned the salute.

  Sorrel of Aluminus was known by the name Satchel in military communication. No one had ever found out why. No more than five foot- eight, his emaciated face, slim torso, and short, unwashed blonde hair gave him the appearance of a beggar; he took long strides and kept his head tilted forward. When soldiers used to volunteer to be captured, Satchel was a favorite: “He’ll make them think we’re a bunch of sleepless, underfed little fishermen.” His commanding officer would say. And Satchel, a lieutenant at the time, would walk off toward enemy lines. Every time, a fire would claim the enemy camp, or an enemy officer would wake up dead, the prisoners would be gone, and Satchel would come back and ask for a day off to sleep.

  Now, Sorrel looked at Isaac with one, sleepy eye. Isaac opened both of his.

“Looks like we’re going to die, Isaac. Your armor’s in the next room over.”

Isaac nodded slowly and rubbed his stomach.

“Can you get me some roast chicken before the dying?”

“Sure.”

-

Footnotes
1  The emperor of the Soland. He is recognized as the prophet and apprentice of Sol, the deity of the people of the Soland
2  Handheld firearms. Usually fire grape-sized balls of metal
3  Obscene term for bandit or beggar
4  Elite soldiers of Illus, known for their gold-tinted armor
5  Nar: an honorific applied to soldiers
6  Mild obscenity
7  The Small Kingdoms are a confederation of states south of the Soland
8  The residence of Illus, the giant golden tower is located in the capital city of Sol